


human aversions

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Castiel, Human Castiel, M/M, Post Season/Series 08 Finale, Season/Series 08 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is human, and being human is a lot harder than expected. Luckily, Sam, Dean, and Kevin are there to help him along; Dean particularly enjoys teaching Castiel, and Castiel invests all his trust in the hunter who's saved his ass more times than he can count.</p><p>Fluffy, a bit domestic at times, and all-around warm and fuzzy.</p><p>Warning to the wise: not beta'd at all. Just my own musings/headcanons. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. moist, not merry

**Author's Note:**

> In which Castiel takes his first shower. He decides that he does not like being wet.  
> Inspired by [this](http://cassielnovak.tumblr.com/post/50622183209/brandichampane-art-just-imagine-the-first-time) post by tumblr user brandichampane-art

After a few minutes of twisting the rusted faucet handle, futility trying to cease the water. Castiel decided he did not like being wet; he did not like having to lather his hair with soap, as Dean instructed (and, oh, Dean had conveniently failed to mention the perils of letting the suds seep into one’s eyes) and done the same to his hair; and, to his dismay, he decided he did not like being human. At least not yet. Sam and Dean fed him the line: “It will get better.” Castiel was inclined to be pessimistic, simply because of the circumstances. His Grace was cut from him, in the most literal sense, and he could still feel the jagged edges in his essence from which it was torn.

Though considering the consequences of an insane angel banishing his brothers from heaven was not prevalent to ‘showering’ so Castiel pushed those thoughts away.

He opened the shower curtain and stepped out. In a neat pile on the bathroom vanity was a pair of clothes that weren’t his but were clean. Dean promised he’d take his trench coat to the dry cleaning as soon as the world calmed down. His fallen brethren had indeed caused a muck.

Castiel put on those clothes, or at least tired. They did not slip on easily; they stuck to his skin and his soaking hair fell into his eyes as Castiel struggled to slip a tshirt over his head. His teeth ground and—

A small cry passed his lips as his wet feet slipped on the bathroom tile; Castiel managed to catch himself on the vanity, huffing as adrenaline pulsed through his veins. He knew the probability of deaths occurring in human bathrooms. It was one thing to be a celestial being aware of seemingly benign earthly trivia, but another to nearly become part of a statistic. Castiel grumbled and ripped the tshirt off, deciding there was no hope.

“Dean?” he called, voice breaking slightly. “Dean—I need help.”

The door was opening almost immediately and Dean was standing before him, green eyes going wide as he saw Castiel. All of Castiel.

Castiel tilted his head. He did not understand why Dean was suddenly holding up a hand, to block out Castiel’s body from his line of vision, nor why his freckled face was now reddening. Since Dean was male he should have been more than comfortable from Castiel’s form.

_Except… this is not merely my form,_ Castiel realized.  _This body is mine and mine alone._ The revelation made him seize, suddenly grateful that Dean was being… considerate. For the first time, Castiel felt embarrassment and he was reminded of Genisis, when Adam and Eve first became truly human, and they recognized their nakedness and hid from God. Castiel would not hide from Dean, not now, but that did not impede his discomfort. 

“I… cannot make these clothes…fit,” Castiel told Dean slowly.

Dean nodded, squinting one eye shut while the other looked Castiel directly in the eye. Not a centimeter lower. “Well, that might have something to do with you being  _dripping wet,_ ” Dean muttered.

“You told me that showering required my entire body to be entrenched by water,” Castiel replied with a downfallen expression. So he had done it wrong.

“No, man.” Dean reached to a shelf just by the bathroom door, capturing a towel in his hands. “You just missed a step.” He stared at the towel and smiled. “I’ll show you.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel did not react when Dean wrapped that twoel around his arms, his neck, his legs—and then finally he rustled it through his black hair. But he did let his eyes close, relaxation and a rare inkling of contentment filling him whole. “For everything.”


	2. taste assimilation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel is unsure of eating, and Dean gives a little lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look I squeezed out another. It looks like this little collection will be filled with a lot of "firsts"  
> It may develop plot, depending on how busy I get during the Hellatus.  
> Suggestions/ideas are welcome because I just want to write human!Castiel A LOT.

Lack of experience is not to be mistaken for ignorance. When it comes to the most basic, innate actions performed by humans, Castiel is well aware of the motions one must take to perform optimally. It takes a skilled mouth and steady hands, and a good sense of portion size.

Eating, as it turns out, is a great challenge that Castiel meets with a few snags.

The wake of destruction happens to send Castiel and his vessel -- well, this was actually not a vessel anymore, and to be honest it had not been for a long while -- into a manic state which only burgers and fries could provide respite. He informs Dean of such, and he must have been willing to indulge this very human whim of Castiel's. He does not think he desserves to enjoy any human pleasure while his brothers lay cast around the globe, some suffering to adapt and perhaps being incarcerated for their erratic angelic behavior. It is easy for Castiel to recall how many of his brothers and sisters were disenchanted with humanity and Earth. Though being around the Winchesters had brought Castiel to many a crossroad, he  _would_  survive being human. Part of him fears that his condition will be permanent but he does not let that thought linger far. Instead, he awaits his great indulgence, one that is most like a lingering addiction of Jimmy Novak's.

He sits at the long, dining table within the Men of Letters bunker, toying with the hem of his shirt when Dean arrives and sets a brown paper bag before him. With more enthusiasm than he would usually display, Castiel reaches for the bag, fingers becoming greasy due to the oil that was already soaking through. Castiel's frontal lobe informs him that the fatty acids in the grease could prove to be detrimental to his new human body (he cannot eat dozens of burgers without consequences, unfortunately) but there are braincells firing and telling him to indulge himself.

"You just gonna molest the bag or are you gonna eat?" Dean's voice interrupts Castiel's tumultuous train of though.

"I do not think that a paper bag, nor its contents, is capable of being bothered," Castiel says dully, lips pressing together when he realizes the connotation of Dean's words. "Ah. No, I am just... tentative."

"Tentative?"

"Yes. Tentative." Castiel peers at Dean with an odd expression, and Dean looks back incredulously.

"Cas--you gotta eat, man. Part of the human gig."

"I am aware, Dean," Castiel replies tiredly. His lips twist, discomfort rolling in his stomach as hit growls at him. "My body has adequately alerted me to the fact that I am indeed experiencing hunger."

"Dude," Dean chastises, ripping the bag from Castiel's hands and taking out the burger. He unwraps it unceremoniously and shoves back into Castiel's open fists. "Eat."

"I have eaten all of  _once,_ Dean, if you recall, when we faced Famine," Castiel manages between grit teeth. He is angry; it is a dull anger, perhaps dull for the average human, but for a newly fallen angel it is like a slow-boiling rage. "I am not a child, and I will eat when I'm ready."

"So what? You are afraid--"

"I am not fearful," Castiel cuts in with an irritated jab.

"Fine. You are  _unsure_ of what will happen when you eat when you're eating  _to live._ "

"If we have succumbed to generalizations, then yes."

Dean looks at Castiel for a moment before pulling his chair next to him, a foil-wrapped burger in his hand. His green eyes flicker with something, perhaps embarrassment, as he unwraps it.

"Okay, I know you've watched me eat a million times, but just pay attention," he tells Castiel. And Castiel  _does._

He pays special attention to the way his jaw opens and closes, a soft roll as he chews. And as the jaw rises, his lips press outward and a small drop of oil squeezes between them and Castiel feels an odd desire to wipe it away, but he remains still as a statue. His eyes flicker up to meet Dean's but they are closed, squinting with something between concentration and pleasure.

Dean's eyes open after he swallows, and Castiel does watch as his Adam's apple bobs. "And that's how it's done."

"I--see," Castiel said, trying to conceal his confused stutter. "And you feel contentment following consumption?"

"Yeah, 'specially when it's a nice n' greasy hamburger." Dean smiles and tilts his chin forward, gesturing to Castiel's food.

Castiel almost forgot.

He brings the bun to his lips and opens, familiar with the  _physical_ aspect of eating. He takes a bite that might have been too large, and chews. Slow and deliberate, until the meet and bread is liquified enough to flow down his throat smoothly. He hums as it passes through the canal, through his chest, and then in his stomach. His body seems to tingle as the he continues the process, growing ever faster. Soon, the burger is gone and, without being instructed, he moves on to devour the french fries in his paper bag.

Once he finishes those, he is licking his fingers clean, the salt and carbohydrate residue making his tongue quiver.  _Taste buds,_ his English vernacular supplies. When he was possessed by Famine's control, he did not appreciate taste at all. Castiel decides that he is a fan of sodium.

When he is done, he looks to see that Dean is watching him. His green eyes are dark and wide, possessed by something that Castiel does not recognize. Instead of letting his mind wander, and how it wandered in his human state, he looks away and wiped his hand across his mouth and innocently asks, "Did I do it right?"

From his peripheral vision Castiel sees Dean's expression alter completely; he is shaken and Castiel does not know why but he does not ask. "It should be a  _crime_ \--" Dean starts in a murmur, and then shakes his head. "I mean, yeah, you did it right. Great.  _Swell_."

Castiel nodded softly. "For dinner I would like another, if it is not trouble," he tells Dean. "Perhaps one with bacon on it."

"And cheese?" Dean is smiling.

Castiel thinks for a moment and then shrugs. "Why not?"

Dean is laughing, a musical sound that Castiel pretends to not be fascinated by, and he claps him on the shoulder. "A man after my own stomach. Nice."


	3. game of life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel experiences emotion, and Kevin tells him how it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has a little bit more of a serious note. Am I actually making plot out of these silly drabbles? Oooooops.

Castiel does not enjoy being left alone with the Prophet Kevin Tran. 

He is young, brusque, and has a penchant for playing his music loud enough to hurt Castiel’s eardrums. More often than not, Sam and Dean did leave Castiel alone with the young prophet, Castiel as his guard. Though he is not useless in the field, he does not wish to venture out of the Men of Letters lair.

There is something about touching the daylight, but never feeling the ruffling of his feathers in the wind. To Castiel’s dispair, his wings had fallen out with in the first week of his… his fall. Unlike his brothers who plummeted through the atmosphere, their wings burning due to the friction of air at an unfathomable velocity, Castiel still had his wings. Shortly after coming to terms with his humanity, he began to lose his balance. His feathers, once invisible pieces of a celestial quilt of energy, began to fall and Dean saw them. Gathered them up. Hid them away, so Castiel would not have to deal with disposing of the remnants of his angelic nature.

Castiel still falters forward at times, when standing, because he does not anticipate the lack of weight on his back.

Nevertheless, staying indoors allows Castiel to remain reserved and untouched by the fact that he would never soar, even briefly, through the sky again.

Kevin lounges at the dining table, papers and notes sprawled out around him as he pounds away at his computer. Castiel is feeling bored, a new human condition that he has emptily become acquainted with, and comes to stand at the opposite end of the table. He glances downward, seeing the ancient Enochian symbols that even predate his knowledge. He drops his hand to the table, spreads his fingers over the inked symbols and sighs. The word of God; he wishes he had the privilege of understanding. His eyes flash up to look at the young prophet. He even wishes that he could alleviate the boy’s burden, the sole intellectual who could possibly translate prophecy his Father had left the world.

Beside Metatron.

Castiel’s relaxed hand fists and he tucks it at his side. There it was—the anger. He was well acquainted with rage—Castiel theorizes that God gave angels more power to feel this emotion above all others, in order to be the wrathful soldiers He designed—but not this sort. He never, as an angel, felt anger and despair become perpendicular to the point to where he could not discern a drop of logic. His lips quiver. Whenever the thought of Metatron arises, he feels the emptiness come over him like a crashing tide. How  _dare_ he lie to Castiel! Castiel, the angel who simply cared too much; Castiel, the angel who rebelled and blasphemed  who forgave and was forgiven, who betrayed and lost the trust of all who had ever loved him, who loved humanity so much that he was the final ingredient of a spell which would destroy his family.

“Castiel?” It is the voice of Kevin Tran that brings Castiel from his spiral. His eyes flash up to meet the ones across the table. Kevin does not like Castiel, but there is something quite beautiful and so utterly  _human_ about the flash of concern in his eyes.

“I am fine,” Castiel says, and he realizes his voice is shaking. He also realizes he is lying, and it is much easier on his tongue when he is shielding his emotions.

“Look—no you aren’t,” Kevin says impatiently. He stands up and pulls out the chair that his adjacent to him, motions a hand to it. Castiel tilts his head and is confused; the gesture is reminiscent of one introducing a person to another person. Is Kevin Tran asking him to confess his emotions to the chair? Castiel purses his lips. “ _Sit,_ ” Kevin invows, and Castiel understands. He takes a seat, sitting as he would have with wings. It is another blow to his stomach when he is able to lean completely back and he feels nothing except the pleasure that came with an erect spine.

Kevin is looking at him, and Castiel looks back. He knows Dean is bothered by staring but the prophet seems undeterred  Perhaps he understands why Castiel does it,  _looks_. He looks for meaning in the human expression, since he can barely gather it from tone or body language. In a sense, Castiel is desperate to understand, because he is now human after all. But he does not desire to learn. If he learns too much, he might grow comfortable in this form. If he remains human, he will be that— _human_. Powerful creatures, but not angels. Castiel was born an angel, crafted that way, never intended to fall to the earth and walk among those he was charged to protect.

Kevin’s eyes narrow at him. “I know you’ve been in a bad way, these past couple weeks, but I’m getting tired of watching you mope,” he tells Castiel indignantly.

Castiel continues to stare, but is more shocked by the words. Was he challenging Castiel?

“You got up in my face, spat all that bull about  _duty_ and there never being a  _way out._ You told me I was stuck as a prophet, until I ceased to exist.” Kevin gesticulates at him, seeming angrier. “Look at you! You had a duty, now you can’t do it. You found a way out, Angel of the Lord. Yet, here I am.”

“I did not want a way out,” Castiel replies, his voice cracking unintentionally. “I wished to exist as an angel and save Heaven; I wished to die in arms, protecting my family.”

“Which family?” Kevin asks.

It gives Castiel a deep pause, and he thinks. What other family did he have then those who were born of his Father’s hand and the Heavenly Host? “My brothers and sisters of Heaven, of course,” he says slowly.

“I don’t think that’s true.” Kevin relaxes in his seat. “Ever since I’ve met you, you’ve been with Sam and Dean. I’ve heard stories about how you slaughtered heaven—” Castiel winces and looks away “—and all kinds of stuff, to save Earth. And then the whole thing with Naomi, man, the Winchesters told me. You—you overcame  _brainwashing_ so you wouldn’t kill Dean.”

Castiel nods. “I have hurt Dean—and Sam— far too many times. I would not end him, not now. After everything.” His tone sways and billows with that breathless  _everything._ Hell, rebellion, Lucifer, Purgatory— _everything_.

“I don’t know the half of it, since I’m new around here,” Kevin says. “I just know that you side with us, the ‘hairless apes’, a hell of a lot more than your  _family.”_

“God commanded me—us—to love humans above all.” Castiel swallows, his eyebrows furrowing. “Above him. To protect you.”

Kevin’s lips twitch for a moment. “Yeah.” He seems pleased, as if Castiel has realized something. And he has.

“In that, I have failed above all,” he groans and hunches forward, a gesture that his so painfully human that he questions it, but finds that he has no energy to.

“Dude, you are like a bipolar angel—ex-angel, I mean,” Kevin grumbles and kicks the leg of Castiel’s chair, causing him to look up with a a glare that was synonymous to ‘I will end you’. “You screw up, but that makes you human. Maybe God made you more human than the rest of those dicks because he knew it would allow you to…you know, love them more.”

That was an interesting notion that Castiel would consider if he were not feeling sick to his stomach. “God would not create an angel different than the rest. He did that once, gave one angel a dab more free will than the rest. You know where he is now, Kevin Tran?” Castiel’s eyes glanced at the floor. “Rotting. Burning. Cast to hell by his own brother. My brother. I should be rotting next to him, for the sins I have bared and for going against Heaven.”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen! I know I’m a friggin’ Prophet of the Lord, but I never wanted to be. I had a future—college, the presidency, but you know what? Things change. My family is dead, along with just about everyone I’ve ever cared about. I deal with it. You are responsible for a lot of death, but so am I. So is Sam, and, hell, I used to blame Dean for just about everything…and he deserves some of it… but do you think we should be having a barbecue with Satan?”

“Of course not,” Castiel replies indignantly, the question blowing him away. Sam of course should not be rotting with Lucifer, he already has. And Dean—Dean does not desserve any harm. Castiel would bear it all, if push came to shove. “You are human. You are entitled to mistakes.”

As he stands, Kevin releases the heaviest of sighs. “Well, Cas, looks like you’re human now, so you better start entitling yourself. I don’t want a mopey, pathetic, self-loathing douche babysitting me.” He flashes a smile. “I get enough of that from the Winchesters.”

Castiel finds himself chuckling, comprehending the joke. Kevin is  _funny,_ he realizes with a leap in his chest. Though he had walked among humans for thousands of years, watched them, observed them, humor was one thing that always changed. Castiel could never keep up. That, however, was when he remained a timeless being. Now he was a blip, destined to live and then someday die. Perhaps it was better to embrace comprehension than risk living the rest of his existence in constant confusion.

“So,” Kevin sighs, glancing toward his computer. “Wanna play?”

“Play?” Castiel thought Kevin was working on translating the tablet.

“I figured that… I needed a break from translating that stupid thing,” he says and waves a dismissive hand at the Angel tablet. “Been playing Mrs. Pac Man.”

“Mrs. Pac Man,” Castiel repeats dully. Kevin motions for him to pull his chair closer, so that they were side-by-side. He explains the game, shows Castiel the controls.

It is an hour before Castiel understand the concept, and quickly he develops keen hand-eye coordination that might be rooted in his knowledge of hand-to-hand combat. He does not linger on that thought though. The game is quite numbing, and Kevin seems to enjoy watching Castiel’s frustration each time he loses.

Sam and Dean arrive about two hours after that; Castiel has one hand on the keyboard, the other in a bag of marshmallows. Dean makes a noise in his throat, causing Castiel to look from the screen with a little shock—and then he hears the computer make the sounds reminicent of his character dying.

“Damn it Dean, you distracted me,” Castiel growls and slams a fist into the keyboard.

“Whoa, careful with my device,” Kevin protests and takes his laptop from Castiel’s reach.

He makes a face, returning his gaze to Dean. “You frightened me,” he murmurs. “And caused me to  _lose a life_.”

Castiel perceives the twisting on Dean’s lips as amusement, and grumbles, because he does not appreciate it when Dean laughs at him.

“You are incredible,” Dean murmurs, looking to Sam who is arching a brow at Dean. Dean’s smile drops away and he clears his throat. “Got you a…  _bacon_ cheeseburger. Just like we like.” He beckons Castiel with a finger.

“Thank you Dean, Sam,” Castiel says as he takes the bag of food. Kevin comes up behind him and takes another bag from Sam, and seems to be heading to his room. “Wait,” Castiel calls out, stuttering and blushing all at once and he wishes he did not have all eyes on him. “We should all eat, here.” He gestures to the table, realizing it’s covered, and then begins to clear off enough room to seat all of them.

Dean looks at him with an expression that is discernable. “Why?”

“I have walked among humans long enough to comprehend a familial tradition involves sharing food at a singular table, at which one can see the rest of one’s family’s faces,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

“ _Familial tradition,_ ” Kevin quotes, laughing. “So, we’re a family now?”

“Pretty sucky one,” Dean murmurs, but he does take a seat. Sam sits at Dean’s left, and Castiel sits across from him. Kevin takes a seat confidently next to Castiel.

“We are a unit; we rely upon each other.” Castiel looks to Dean first for a long moment, and then to rest. “I know I am not like you—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean says.

Castiel cannot help but smile.

“Thank you. For…everything.” He does not mean to look at Dean, who is starring directly back, when he says this. But he does. And then Sam clears his throat.

Sam nods in agreement. “Cas, you’re family, you always have been—”

“Always,” Dean reiterates.

“Even if your’e a dick.” It is Kevin who says this, and then he breaks into laughter. Castiel is smiling, wider than he would normally. He feels, for the first time, as though as he belongs. He is not a rebellious angel, a fallen angel. He is human. He would never say so aloud, but it is the moment in which he has ever been glad to have his grace stolen, his wings torn away by fate. He is  _content._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect the next chapter to be Deancas fluff. ~laughs evily~ I think I'm going to move the rating up to Teen. For now.


	4. winchester witch hazel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Castiel cuts himself shaving, and Dean is there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, two of these in one day. Do not get used to this. I was just having a bad day and squeezed this out because I can. : )

Castiel stands before the fogged bathroom mirror, lips twisting as he eyes his distorted reflection. His hair is still dripping, water drops flowing down his cheeks, creating a phantom itch he then scratches. Feeling scruff of hair, he curiously draws his fingers from the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and then up his jaw.

The facial hair is thick and course; it has not been as full like this since he was in Purgatory. The memory sickens him and he forces it away, glancing down at the vanity. He sees a razor—it is probably Dean’s—and picks it up. Glares at it. He suddenly wishes that he could wave a hand and meld his vessel, make his skin slick. He shouldn’t care, really, he’s never even given a thought to his appearances—except when it came to blending in. Now, however, when his humanity is genuine, there should be no reason to do so. After all, many a human wear their beards with pride.

Castiel feels a throb, a pulse, of disappointment when he realizes he is not one of those men. He does not like the texture of hair beneath his fingers when he touches his face. Idly, he thinks of the many times he has touched Dean’s face and felt the stubble, and wonders why that texture on Dean’s skin never bothered him. Perhaps as an angel his tactile senses were not as vivid. He shifts his weight from leg to leg and tries to ignore the fleeting thought that maybe he should test this out by touching Dean’s face. He will not.

With a steady hand, he brings the tip of the razor to his right cheek bone, presses the blades flush to his skin. The long, coarse hairs must have woven between the blades, because when he pulls, he winces. It hurts. And then he pulls harder, and it hurts more, and he has a feeling he should stop but he wants the hair  _gone._ So he pulls again, pressing the head of the razor deeper into his skin—

Castiel cries out, dropping the razor and clenching his cheek as it clatters to the floor. Off his lips roll a string of Enochian curses, muffled but loud, and seconds later the door is flying open.

“Cas!”

It is Dean. It is always Dean. Castiel’s eyes are barely open, squinting into the open door frame as one hand presses against his surely bleeding skin, the other clutching the side of the sink as he pants heavily. He has no will to move, as he tries to cope with the incessant throbbing, pulsing of blood down his cheek, onto his mouth and past his lips. He can taste the blood. Dean is pushing against his chest and suddenly Castiel is sitting on the vanity, eyes then wide and staring at Dean as he focuses his eyes on Castiel’s face. Swats away his hand, so that he can see the wound.

“Dean—” Castiel begins a protest, but has no words to speak when Dean pinches the sliced skin. He is pained, but at the same time the pressure is slightly numbing and from his lips stutters a sigh, a mix of demur and relief and the sound of Dean’s name.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dean asks, and he isn’t angry. Even to Castiel, the concern is clear in his voice. Green eyes flicker from Castiel’s cheek to his eyes, and Castiel watches him carefully.

“Facial hair is… vexatious,” he explains.

“Vexatious?” Dean snorts, amused, and begins to reach over Castiel’s body. They are so close, he is sure he feels Dean’s breath graze over his unharmed cheek, causing a prickly sensation to crawl up his back, his neck.  _Gooseflesh,_ his analytical mind supplies, but he holds his breath because all logic slips away when Dean is in such proximity  Ironic, since it was Dean who talked to him about personal space. Or perhaps it was fascinatingly awkward, because Dean taught him the implications of such proximities being breached. It makes his heart race.

Then Dean is pulling away, and Castiel blushes for thinking…wondering… when he realizes Dean was just reaching for the hand towel on the wall behind him. He presses it to his bloodied cheek, removing his hand.

“It means bothersome,” Castiel murmurs to fill the silences, and it comes out rushed. Dean looks at him, confused, as if he had already forgotten his own question. “Vexatious, Dean. Bothersome.”

“Oh.” Dean’s lips press together for a moment and he looks away. “Right. You—uhm, you need to not try this again.” He presses the towel into Castiel’s cheek, making his point. Castiel hisses in response, shooting a glare.

“Dean, I was once an angel,” he snaps and places his hand over the towel—well, his hand ends up laying overtop of Dean’s, and he expects it to move. But it does not, and Dean is staring at him with an intensity that makes him feel nauseous  but not sick. It is strange. He wishes to extinguish the feeling so he reverts back to his previous positon and lets his arm fall away. His eyes fall downward as well. “I cannot perform the simplest of human tasks. I make a dreadful human.”

The pressure on his cheek lessens; Dean is easing away the towel to look, and he hisses. “Shit, it’s kinda bad. But, Cas, it’s okay. Hold it there, I’ll be back in a sec.” He lets Castiel take over applying pressure and walks out of the bathroom. He comes back with a little leather pouch and pulls out a vile of something and soaks the clean corner of the rag with it. “Move your hand,” he says like an order, but gently still. The liquid, whatever it is, has a strong scent that Castiel recognizes instantly.

“Witch hazel,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.” Dean is cleaning his wound with tenderness that feels a little gratuitous. Castiel, as he said, was once an Angel of the Lord. Demons had poked and prodded his intestines, angels have gouged out his eyeballs to access his brain, and then put them back with no care at all.  Before, though, his body was merely a vessel. Now Castiel was  _Castiel._ There is no emptiness where Jimmy Novak used to reside, no cavity for his Grace to fill. He is merely himself. A human, and a new human at that.  He wonders when he had grown so emphatic, to let Dean touch him like this, like a porcelain artifact.

Castiel should have not liked Dean’s touch as much as he did.

After a long moment of silence, of Castiel trying to see past the barrier which was Dean’s eyes, Dean feels obligated to complete his thought. “My—my Dad taught me that witch hazel constricts the blood vessels. The Men of Letters don’t exactly have ice, and I’ve gotta stop the bleeding somehow.”

“Thank you,” Castiel manages tersely and applies his touch to Dean’s wrist. Not pushing him a way, but extenuating his gratitude. Dean freezes beneath the touch. “I think the bleeding has stopped.

“Um. Good.” Dean pulls away and coughs, turns around so that Castiel cannot see his face. He wants to see Dean’s face, continue to translate each twinge of his brow, each twitch of his lip. He is a puzzle in every sense of the word. He knows this man, inside and out, yet can never truly understand him. It is frustrating, but pleasant, to live inside this little mystery that is exclusive to them.

He does not turn around; he is actually making his way to leave the bathroom. “Dean,” he says, quick and more sharp than intended. “You mustn’t leave me here, ignorant.”

Dean spins back around with furrowed brow. “What?”

“I…” Castiel trails off, rubbing a hand against his cheek. “I don’t want facial hair. I need to learn.” His eyes lower. “Teach me, Dean.”

Dean visibly swallows and rolls his shoulders, seeming uncomfortable. “I—I was helpin’ Sam research the demon curing thing, ya’ know, since that’s the new game plan and everything…needs me,” he mutters, deliberately not looking at Castiel.

He tilts his head, confused, and rolls his hips so that he falls off the counter. Landing softly on his feet, he strides to Dean with a curious expression, examines his face like it is an ancient artifact. He  _needs_ to understand each stutter that comes off those lips. He needs it like he will never will have it.

_Unobtainable._

“It will only take a moment.” Castiel rubs his chin and purses his lips. “Please?”

“Fine,” Dean says without pause and pushes Castiel’s shoulder so that they are next to the sink once again. He pulls out a small can from his leather bag, removes the cap and presses down the head of it. From the tip spurts what looks like whipped cream; Dean fills his hand with it and he raises the hand to Castiel’s face.

He is frozen, as Dean works his hand across Castiel’s left cheek, completely layering him from his chin to his earlobe with the thick, white cream. Dean carefully migrates to Castiel’s right cheek and carefully avoids the cut, but still applies a generous amount from his ear…down his neck. Castiel tries to ignore the pause Dean takes when his lathered, rough, callused fingers linger on his throbbing pulse. Can he feel the sententious, racing of that pulse, Castiel wonders. He can barely explain it himself. He wishes Dean to discover it, teach him what it means when one’s touch, one’s eyes elicit such a reaction.

Then his hand is gone, and Dean is once again leaning to reach behind Castiel, and the closeness is nearly too much. Dean’s left shoulder is completely pressed into Castiel’s right, and Castiel resists the urge to lift his hand, which is clenching the side of the vanity, only slightly to touch Dean’s waist. He stores that thought away as quickly as it invaded is ruthlessly human thoughts, and closed his eyes. When Dean’s shoulder left his, he still did not open his eyes. He only opened them when he felt the pressure of metal on his cheek. The phantom pain is there, with his first move, and his entire body clenches. Anticipating the pain.

“I won’t cut you,” Dean’s voice breaks into his fearful thoughts and he nods slightly. Dean smiles a little watching the blade intently. “Sammy used to be so dumb about shaving. Was doing it for him until he was seventeen.” He sounds more fond than he does amused. Castiel wonders if Dean is fond of him, when they are like this, when Dean is teaching him things because Castiel is ‘dumb’ about it.

Castiel can already feel how clean his cheek is, when Dean is finished. Dean proceeds to shave his neck, which required that his other hand hold Castiel’s cheek to give him better leverage. His eyes flashed up to meet blue, glancing away soon as he saw Castiel’s gaze had not lifted, never would.

“You  _are_  good at this,” Castiel murmurs. He is trying to mute his own thoughts by breaking the silence.

“You will be, too,” Dean replies confidently with a smirk. Castiel’s cheeks glow pink and  _finally,_ Dean has compelled him to look away.

It feels like years when Dean is finished; he finds a clean towel, free of blood and witch hazel, and runs it under hot water. After wringing it, he smoothes it over Castiel’s face, wiping away the hair and cream, leaving his skin smoother than it had felt in months. He then gives a playful smack to Castiel’s unblemished cheek.

“All good?”

Castiel nods dumbly. “Yes, Dean.”

They are close. Impossibly close, and Castiel is unaware of what is happening until he feels soft, warm lips pressing against his cheek—his cut. He also feels a hand kneading his other cheek as Dean brushes strands of his dark, wet hair out of his eyes. He sees Dean completely, as his face merges with his own. Castiel's entire body seizes and he wants to pull away, from mere shock.  But he doesn’t, and Dean only lets his lips linger for a second before he pulls back with hooded eyes. He tentatively raises them to meet Castiel’s, who swallows hard.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stumbling backward with a new expression—complete shame. Castiel’s entire body goes rigid as he recognizes the way in which Dean pins that  _regret_ onto himself, creating a weight that only a certain eye can see. It was Castiel who mended a crazed, deranged soul from hell into the semblance of something human, terribly, beautifully human.

“Dean!” Castiel calls out, but Dean is already out of the bathroom. Castiel follows him into the hall and walks faster, catches Dean by the shoulder.

“I said I’m sorry, just—forget it, Cas,” he grumbles and runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“I am not as familiar with intimacy, as you are. I was surprised, but you—you were not alone—not at fault,” Castiel says slowly, intoning each syllable as he squeezes Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, sometimes I dream. I dream of you.” He has no other way of explaining his spiraling emotions, so he says a simple truth.

Dean just  _looks_  at him. “You don’t have to make me feel better.”

“At this very moment, I could care less about how you feel,” Castiel invows. “I have been a human for one month, one miserable month—useless! I do not know what I’m feeling—everything is so different, being human. All I know is you, I’ve always known you.” He tries something. His hand relaxes on Dean’s shoulder, moves to his neck. He mimics the near-caress that Dean gave him before, fingers pressing against his pulse. He tries not to smile when he feels it racing erratically beneath his touch.

“Once,” Castiel continues, voice dropping into a low, dull murmur. “Once you said you needed me, and I failed you, Dean. Countless times I had done so, but I failed you when it counted the most. And I never had the opportunity…to tell you that I need you too.”

Dean’s breath hitches. “Cas…”

Castiel dropped his hand and bowed his chin, in apology. “The kiss, if you wish it to be forgotten, so be it. I will act as such.” He lifted his eyes to Dean’s. “But know that I will never forget.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? Is this plot? I think so. When inspiration strikes, I will write some more fluff with plot weaved in.


End file.
